Family meal time. What images do those words conjure up? A relaxed gathering among friends and family, or a fierce battle versus small opponents from start to finish?

If it’s the latter, read on. (If not, indulge me and read on anyway.)

Remember mealtimes when you were a kid? If your childhood was anything like mine, they went something like this:

Your parents presented a plate of food.

You ate it.

That’s it! God, what a beautiful, simple process it was. Usually there was even some nice conversation sprinkled in there.

Now, let’s compare that to my average family meal at home:

My wife and I present food.

Kids tell us which components they don’t like.

We say there’s no other supper, so you may as well try it.

Kids try it.

Kids make faces.

Kids hone in on carb-based option; ignore the rest.

We tell them to eat more veggies.

Kids take five hours to eat three bites of vegetables, during which they:

Put food in each other’s hair;

Play with utensils;

Invade each other’s personal space;

Drop food on their laps;

Make a wide variety of rude noises; and

Ask every ten seconds if we’re having dessert.

Kids complain about lack of dessert and excuse themselves from the table.

I may have exaggerated a bit… but sadly I didn’t have to that much.

This comparison leaves me begging the question:

When did eating become so stressful?

I have a hunch that the internet is to blame. Much like alcohol, it has become the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems (thank you, Homer Simpson, for that pearl of wisdom).

But consider this: unlike our parents before us, we are bombarded daily by news reports, Facebook posts, blog sites, Youtube videos, and so on… They’re all telling us
of the evils of what we feed our children, and extolling the virtues of what we should be feeding them.

In the “old days”, you only had to worry about judgemental neighbours and friends. In 2016 it’s as if the entire world is looking down its nose at you every time you let your kid have a lollipop.

So we’re on them constantly. “You’ve had plenty of sugar today!”… “You’ve had four of those already!”… “You can have ice cream when you eat more broccoli!” We’ve become so obsessive as parents, that our kids’ lives have become a series of nutritional ordeals that they must endure just to get their next fix.

But here’s the best part… We’re the ones peddling the goods!

Birthday party? Sugar.

Christmas? Sugar.

Valentine’s day? Sugar (oh… and love).

Easter? Sugar.

You did well on a test? You finished your swim class? You used your manners? You cleaned your room? Sugar, baby! That’s your reward! But only after you finish your
Happy Meal…

We’re like mad crack dealers: giving out free hits and then scolding them for taking them, but encouraging them to come back for more.

Our messages are in conflict. We want to cling to that carefree childhood we remember, and pass it on to our kids… and yet we’ve created a world in which being carefree is synonymous with being an irresponsible parent.

I was talking with a friend about this recently. I asked him if, when he was a kid, his parents regularly told him to lay off sugar and junk food (I know mine didn’t make a big deal of it). He said no. What’s more, he said he had his moments of gorging on junk (eating a whole Easter bunny in one sitting comes to mind). So why didn’t he die from malnutrition or overeating? Because he learned from these experiences! He felt sick, the novelty wore off, and he didn’t do it again.

Imagine that… Kids actually learn through experience.

Why has it become so hard for us to let them have those learning experiences?

It comes back to information overload: the daily messages of what we’ve done wrong, what we’re doing wrong, and what we should avoid in the future.

Parenting today is pro-actively reactive (can I coin that term?). We’re jumping all over our kids for stuff they haven’t even screwed up yet!

For our part, we’ve been trying something new at meal time. We separate supper into three courses: salad, main dish, and a fruit/cheese plate or something. It’s a minor
change, but the meals have felt a lot less rushed and a lot more enjoyable. The kids
seem to like the pause between foods, and the surprise of what’s up next. And we’re using the relaxed feel to do more talking and less enforcing. It’s nice.

Society has given us a million things to worry about these days when it comes to feeding our kids; everything from tooth decay to cancer. Be conscious of it, but don’t let it control you.

Browned liver and onions, turnips smothered in Mama’s well-seasoned black cast iron pan—these aren’t foods normally accepted by children, but I ate them doggedly, without complaint. I ate cauliflower covered with cheese and mayonnaise, a strange combination; only criticizing it when the mayo drowned the dish. I even ate the more adventurous Cajun dishes Mama made, such as fried alligator, turtle soup, boudin in a pig intestine casing, and hogshead cheese. I did balk at fried frog legs; they tasted ok, like the ubiquitous chicken, but still looked like frog legs. Chicken legs have a saving grace; by getting feathers plucked and feet cut off, the body part is disguised. Bonus: they’re a shape perfect for children to grasp, and even have a cute name—drumsticks. Fried frog legs are thin and hinged, and my over-active mind imagined the frog croaking while jumping with those very legs. My parents thought frog legs were a great delicacy, and with a “more for us” mentality, didn’t make me eat them.

*

Eli, my six-year-old son, has an extreme gag reflex, triggered by unwanted food colors, smells and textures. He is very choosy, to the point of only liking three or four things that could possibly be called healthy. Sometimes he becomes enamored with the idea that he likes special things cooked by someone he loves—his father’s dry-rubbed smoked ribs, his nana’s fried shrimp, his grandmomme’s lasagna. He rubs his tummy in anticipation at the cooking smells, and holds happy conversations with the cook about how he can’t wait to eat it. The cooks, various family members, love this small green-eyed boy desperately, and he loves them. He wants to love the foods they are preparing for him. He bravely lifts his fork and tries a bite so small it could almost be called a lick. He nods, smiles, and proclaims the goodness of the bite before turning to his roll or garlic bread. If I encourage him to try more of the yummy food, he says he isn’t that hungry today. He doesn’t want to admit that his love for the cook got mixed up with his feelings for their food, which isn’t love or desire. I am the only cook whose feelings he is not afraid to hurt. He sits down at my dinner and immediately declares his unhappiness with his plate, filled with food he hates. Maybe this is because he knows that I know better than anyone else the foods he actually loves; maybe it is because I am the main dispenser of food. Maybe it is because I fed him in my womb for nine months, then from my breasts for 36 more. The closeness breeds openness. I should know what foods he likes, I should provide him with them, and if I do not, he will show his displeasure.

*

There was only one food I really could not handle as a child—tomatoes. I could eat cooked tomatoes in spaghetti sauce. But I could not eat the fresh raw tomato slices and wedges my parents served, just picked from my daddy’s garden, organic before organic was cool. They looked repulsive—the slimy tan seeds with mucousy green coating living in segmented pink rooms with red papered-thin outer walls. They smelled sickly sweet with earthy, primal undertones, like vegetable body odor. The mere feel on my tongue triggered my gag reflex. My parents were puzzled but determined to be firm on the issue. They refused to raise picky children, and reasoned the best way to overcome an aversion is when you are young, before it really gets going. My parents stopped serving me a normal serving, which would be a waste, and served me one small scarlet slice or wedge every time we had the loathsome things. I was supposed to stay at the table until I had eaten it. As an adult, I’ve wondered if I could have held my nose and quickly swallowed it—but my mental dread was too great for that to be possible. I would sit with my tomato for a half hour, cutting small slivers off with a butter knife and working myself up mentally to placing them on my tongue. Then came uncontrollable gagging, complete with streaming eyes. My parents suspected I did this purposely to garner sympathy, but I tried desperately to get over my tomato hatred. I would usually only eat half before my mama, shaking her head with disappointment, would excuse me from the table. When they told me that tomatoes were actually fruit, all it meant to me was that tomatoes were lying imposters, trying to trick their way into the fruit kingdom with the disguise of cherry hue and apple shape.

*

I usually require a “no thank you” bite from my children—a single bite swallowed before they are allowed to give up on that particular food for that meal. Otherwise, they claim they hate things they have never tried, or tried a year ago. I would never require one of those innocents to try my food nemesis, however. I realize their own food nemesis could be a different one, and worry I am letting them out of too many “no thank you” bites because I think that food could be the one they really cannot handle. I struggle the most with Eli, who is the youngest, and his texture issues, which my daughters do not have. I remember, too strongly, dry heaving with the tomato on my tongue. I leave Eli’s food issues to my husband, and he leaves other unwanted kid issues to me—vomit, urine soaked mattresses. I am strong enough to deal with these.

*

In my early preteen years, my parents realized I could not be forced to like tomatoes. I was allowed to pick out the lettuce, onion, and cucumbers from the salad bowl, avoiding the tomatoes. I never ate a raw tomato by itself again. It took me a long time to try pico de gallo; I feared the tiny red morsels mixed in with the onions and cilantro. In pico, the onions, lime juice and cilantro mostly cover the tomato flavor. I don’t eat it unless it unexpectedly comes garnishing my enchiladas, and I scrape off the most obnoxiously large tomato morsels. When my husband offers me a bite of his burger, I examine it for a corner without the offensive red sticking out. Bruschetta and Insalata Caprese are out of the realm of possibility. I never serve fresh tomatoes at home—my husband knows he won’t find them in the fridge for his sandwich unless he has bought them himself. Sometimes I cut tomatoes up for birthday party burgers. I make a big deal of my magnanimous sacrifice of touching them and getting slimy fingers. I repeatedly tell my husband, as I slice away, to never doubt my love.

*

If we have a dessert, I use it as a weapon during the dinner battle. I tell my children that they must eat “enough” to get some dessert. How much is enough varies with the child and their capabilities to handle the food being served. My girls are pretty good eaters, so I require more to be eaten if it is a food they just don’t like much but can actually swallow with no problems. If they really hate it, a “no thank you” bite suffices. Eli hates most foods so much that he doesn’t care if he gets dessert or not. All he wants is a grilled-cheese-sandwich-with-ketchup, peanut-butter-spoon, banana-with-peanut-butter, or chicken-nuggets-with-ketchup to fill his empty tummy instead of the chicken pot pie, meatball spaghetti, or tacos I have prepared. I’m not a gourmet cook—these are things most kids like. You can see a theme here; everything he eats involves ketchup or peanut butter.

*

My husband thinks Eli will give in and eat dinner if I refuse to feed him anything else but what the family eats. My mama, the previous Tomato Enforcer, currently Eli’s nana, is horrified at the small number of foods he accepts readily. I know my boy’s stubbornness though. He will go to bed with his tummy growling and gnawing rather than give in, and I can’t handle that. I rationalize that peanut butter is protein and banana is fruit, and I give it to him. He doesn’t ask for dessert, but his eyes, huge as an anime character, watch my fork slice the cake and come up to my mouth, and go back down again to the plate. When his father leaves the table, I call Eli with a whisper, nestle him in my lap and feed him bites of my dessert, off my fork or off my fingers, because he is my last baby bird and feeding him is my job.

When I was a new mother and had a six-month-old who had begun trying solid foods, some overly concerned women who worked with my husband exclaimed, “She’s home all day and doesn’t make her own baby food?” He relayed that conversation to me with a shrug and support, “You know I don’t care if you make baby food right?” Then he handed me the baby-food cookbooks these women passed to him, to pass on to me and I stared up at him hard. My heart sank so far down. Here was another way I was failing as a mother, how I was wasting hours and giving my baby less than he deserved. Not to my husband, thankfully. Again he said, “I really don’t care one way or the other. They mean well. I brought them home only to shut them up and…well, you did like to cook, before.”

I did like to cook before, before I had post-partum depression, before I felt cocooned from the world. The only news from the outside came from women who were preoccupied with how my baby was bottle-fed or how I couldn’t keep my child from mouthing cart handles or how
I didn’t steam and puree organic fruits and veggies. But, cooking had always been a way for me to enjoyably fill the hours; sharing a meal with someone I loved made me happy. Maybe I would ignore the books (especially the one which advocated for brewer’s yeast as a snack). But, maybe I should pick out some foods that my baby couldn’t get it a jar. I would cook for him.

Pureeing watermelon was an all-day project, or else sleep deprivation just made it seem that way. Hacking away the rind, mopping up the pink juices before the ants could find it on the kitchen floor, digging out the food processor and figuring out how to get it put together took too long. Maybe it was the prospect of keeping my baby safely away from sharp objects while entertaining him that may it seem interminable. Eventually, I had a small mound of fuchsia mush I felt somewhat proud of.
My baby took one bite, shot a look up at me that said, “What the hell is this?” and refused to open his mouth again. As I think back now I’m sure the coarse texture paired with an
unusually sweet juice startled him and felt wrong. Or perhaps he just knew that this is never what was meant for this poor melon-a spoonful made of loneliness and self-consciousness. I stared at him for a moment before getting up slowly and retrieving Gerber sweet potatoes, which he devoured happily.

I felt just hopeless, because this had failed, because I couldn’t prove to anyone that I was a worthy stay-at-home mother, because I hadn’t saved any watermelon in large juicy crunchy pink triangles for myself. All I had was this slushy, lukewarm pile that not one of us was going to touch. Down the garbage disposal it went.

Now he is a nine-year-old. He thanks me for making dinner so profusely I suspect he is buttering me up for some big request, but no, he just is sweetly appreciative. Every summer he eats bright juicy watermelon slices they way they were meant to be enjoyed. I feel vindicated that I hadn’t ruined him for good food.

I also feel sad and angry for the unsure mother I had been. I had let some random woman make me feel that I was inadequate, that I was not doing enough, that I myself wasn’t enough because I bought a few, tiny glass jars once upon a time.

The chef’s knife hits the cutting board at a fast clip with a staccato beat. My oldest son deftly dices mango into little golden cubes. He’s 10-and-a-half years old, but on the smaller side for his age, and I’m not used to seeing his hands move so quickly.

“Where did you learn to chop like that?” I can’t help but sound surprised. Not only am I in awe over his skills, but I’m also a bit shocked that I had no clue he could make magic with a knife.

“Cooking shows, Mom. It’s easy.” He shrugs his shoulders, all the while continuing his rhythmic dicing.

The cooking show that’s become appointment viewing in our house is Master Chef Junior. The Fox Television competition for home cooks between the ages of 8 and 14 is dominating our airwaves, and it’s not just my kids who are hooked. I’m also riveted by the larger than life personalities of celebrity chefs Gordon Ramsay, Graham Elliott and Christina Tosi, who lend the show a warmth and friendliness necessary when cooking with children. Clearly their style and the enthusiasm of the young contestants rub off on my son as well. Suddenly, he wants to contribute to our meals.

He starts off with side dishes. At our weekly taco night, he adds a black bean dip to my mix of homemade guacamole and salsa from a jar. When we go on vacation with our extended family, I discover a mascarpone spread he’s created to top off pancakes and French toast. By the time we return from that trip he hits me with the big news: “I want to start making dinner, Mom.”

His declaration renders me speechless, and an awkward silence ensues. None of my children has ever offered to take over one of my “mom duties.” I’m usually begging them to complete the most basic chores like setting the table or making their beds. Cooking a whole meal is nowhere near my radar.

“O…K…” I drag the two letters out slowly in an effort to process the whole situation. I need to be encouraging but also realistic for the sake of both of our expectations. “What did you have in mind that you wanted to make?”

“I’m thinking fish. Maybe fish tacos? I love fish tacos!” His enthusiasm is infectious. Suddenly I’m envisioning a new world of free time as I spend late afternoons writing or catching up with a friend instead of stressing in the grocery aisles trying to come up with something new and exciting for dinner.

Of course, I still end up at the super market. But this time I’m armed with a list from my son of all the ingredients he needs for those fish tacos. I fill my cart with avocados, mangoes, cilantro, and pineapple. He’s making his own salsa. Apparently that’s a thing among these young cooks.

On Master Chef Junior, the contestants do not present the chef judges with a simple piece of chicken or fish or meat. Each dish they create is Michelin star restaurant worthy. The protein of choice is spiced to perfection, often topped with a special sauce made of exotic ingredients, and accompanied by a side dish of deconstructed, whipped or braised vegetables and grains. I can tell by the ingredients I’m tossing into my cart that my son is modeling himself after the dishes on the show and not after my typical weeknight meal of stir-fry or lasagna.

I keep my weeknight meals simple due to lack of time but also due to lack of adventurous taste buds in my children, especially this oldest child of mine. Diagnosed with a peanut allergy at 20-months-old and a tree nut allergy a couple of years later, he’s grown up approaching all food with fear. A healthy amount of caution is wise for anyone with a food allergy, but I’ve always tried to strike a balance between keeping him safe and being rational about what really posed a risk for him. I wanted him to be smart without being nervous. But my son’s anxiety about an allergic reaction made him wary about trying new foods.

Caleb wields his spatula and in the kitchen

All that changed when he passed a food challenge at his doctor’s office last year, declaring him free of his tree nut allergy. It was as if opening up that first jar of Nutella opened up a whole new world of culinary possibilities. Each slice of toast with almond butter seemed to wash away his fears of food, paving the way for the tween chef-in-training who stands before me today, now dicing away at cilantro. Once again I marvel at how finely and skillfully he uses the chef’s knife.

“Sometimes I practice at school with my pencil Mom,” he confesses as he hands me an avocado to prep for him. Being the sous chef is new to me, but I’m good with this role.

I’m also good with the concept of him practicing. For years honing skills has eluded my oldest child, as both his father and I have pleaded with him to make something of his innate musical and athletic abilities. We’ve begged him to sit down at the piano outside of lessons and dragged him to the tennis court for rallies. His willingness to comply varies, but always it’s been us, his parents, driving the situation.

Cooking is mixing-up this paradigm. Through his own volition, he’s watching, learning, and working to perfect his skills. With each strike of the knife, each mixture of spices, each dribbling of a sauce to make a dish extra special, my son is finding a new piece of himself. It’s as if all the lessons I’ve felt were falling on deaf ears are finally coming together.

Thursday nights are now his night to make dinner. We work together, since he’s still learning. But he’s also begging for real cooking lessons and wants to eventually find himself chopping away on Master Chef Junior.

As his mom, I need to foster his dreams and manage expectations. Getting into that studio kitchen is a long shot, no matter how well he cooks. I’m proud of him for setting a goal and working hard to accomplish it, regardless of whether or not he ends up on the program. Then again, should my son find himself donning a Master Chef Junior apron, I’ll be his biggest fan, cheering for each culinary creation those lucky judges will get to taste.

I made White Pie this week for my dad’s birthday. I wasn’t with him to celebrate. In fact, he lives 266 miles from me and I don’t remember the last time we celebrated his birthday together, but every year I make a lasagna and a White Pie for his birthday just like my mom is doing in her kitchen 266 miles away. (You’ve probably never heard of White Pie. I’ve never known anyone outside my own family to make it either but it is a white, sugary confection that is my dad’s favorite.)

It’s funny— the way food connects us to family. The way a certain taste, the smell of spaghetti on the stove, or the sight of strawberries in a bowl on the table can take me back 20 years to my grandmothers’ kitchens. The way a turkey sandwich in the summer reminds me of days sitting on beach with my family and playing endless Spades tournaments.

I may live away from my family today, but in the lonely, homesick moments I pull out the cookbooks ﬁlled with our family favorites and I go back home.

I pop corn on the stovetop and over salt it just a little so I can tell my girls, “This is the way your Great Papa Sandifer used to make popcorn and he’d put a quilt in the yard so we could look at the stars while we ate it. I wish he knew the two of you! He would pull you into his lap and tickle your legs. He would hide Easter eggs you would still be looking for the following year. And you can NEVER put food in tupperware containers that look like this because they will always remind you of Papa’s tobacco-spit cups.”

I sneak carrots into my spaghetti sauce, not because it’s a great little trick to ensure my girls eat their veggies, but because my Mimi made her sauce that way and I have never had another plate that tasted or smelled like hers. When I smell that spaghetti cooking I feel my heart break just a little and tears slip down my cheeks as I mourn the loss of my conﬁdante, knowing she and I will never sit in her recliners having deep conversations about school, relationships, and the latest Reader’s Digest feature story. My girls will know her but not the way I did. They will never experience the rich joy she took in her children and great-grandchildren. But they can taste her spaghetti and vegetable soup, and we can toast saltine crackers with peanut butter and giant marshmallows for snack and they can catch a glimpse of what she gave to me.

I ﬁx bowls of ice cream and laugh as I remind my girls not mistake ketchup for strawberry syrup like their Old Papa. We giggle as my toddler reminds me for the 752nd time that he spilled his water all in his plate on our last visit and it ﬁlls me with joy when she looks at me and says, “Mama, I want go to Old Papa’s howzzzz.” Me too, honey. Me too.

I pick up Nonna before we head to the strawberry patch because fresh strawberries will always remind me of her garden and the bowl of powdered sugar sitting on the Lazy Susan just in case hungry grandkids wanted to taste the treasures they plucked from her garden. I set strips of ﬂowery dough on the kitchen table for my girls to practice rolling out while Nonna sits on the other end of the phone talking me through each step so I can be sure my Chicken and Dumplings taste just like hers. (And all you people that eat Red Velvet with Cream Cheese icing? You’re crazy! Buttercream is the way to go!)

At the Farmer’s Market I skip the shelled peas and go for the ones in the hull, smiling to myself as I run by Publix for a paper sack and remember so many days walking into the homes of my grandparents and being told to “grab a bowl and a sack and come shell with me”. The irritated, black thumbnails were worth every conversation.

I search junk sales for cheap, ﬂimsy, old cookie sheets because they are the only kind you can use to bake my mama’s Chocolate Chip Cookies (And you absolutely must blend your oatmeal in a blender. The food processor just won’t get it right.) that I will serve you on my great-grandmother’s dishes.

So many tastes, smells, and ingredients to connect me to my family and take me home. To remind me of stories told around the table, of holidays together, and love that has never wavered. So many recipes to pass to my own girls, memories to create, and a table that is beaten and scarred, covered in glitter and paint specs, and looks so small to me but will be remembered as so big in the minds of my girls.

Bake crusts according to package instructions. Mix sugar and cream cheese. Prepare Dream Whip according to box instructions and add ﬂavorings. Combine cheese mixture with Dream Whip mixture. Mix well and pour evenly into pie crust. Chill for one hour or until mixture is ﬁrm.

“I don’t know how you do it?” This proverbial question is commonplace amongst mommies.

The mom with one child says it in awe to the mom of multiples. The stay-at-home mom says it to the working mom and vice versa. The mother of girls says it in amazement to the mom of boys. You get the idea. The “it” has yet to be defined. I can, however, offer some insight into the “how.”The “how” is by cutting corners, plain and simple. Call it efficient or even lazy – but cutting corners is the key to successful mothering.

There’s no better place to take short cuts than in the kitchen. Although I’m not (yet) proficient in the kitchen, I’ve cooked enough to acquire tips on simplifying. Here are five quick and easy ways to streamline your mealtime preparation and cooking.

1. The Magic of Mirepoix
Martha Stewart lauds, “Mirepoix is a combination of aromatic vegetables that gives a subtle background flavor to dishes such as soups, stews, and braises.” Available at every grocery
store, pre-diced mirepoix lends a fresh and healthy addition to many meals.

2. “Involving” your Kids
Since starting “The Dinner Dance” series, everyone offers their cooking advice and tips. My hairdresser (also a culinary queen) suggests “involving” the kids in a way that gets them out
from under foot, whilst still feeling participatory. Her go to trick is seeking their assistance in washing. From potatoes to plastic cups – your little sous chefs can assist and allow you to cook.They’ll love washing and getting wet and are safely stationed at the sink. This activity will hopefully harness their pre-dinner fervor. My grandiose notions of cooking collaboratively with my kids are still aspirational. The reality is, at this stage in my cooking abilities, I put the T.V. on and hope it engages them until dinner. My youngest is generally unenthused by T.V., which is great for her development and not so great for the prospect of our dinner, hence the next tip.

3. The Witching Hour Antidote
Babywearing, not limited to babies, is a lifesaver in the kitchen. Come 5 p.m. the stars align to create a horrific scene. Whether you have a wailing baby or whining kids, or both, putting a frozen pizza in the oven can seem like an easy option. However, try babywearing before succumbing to frozen food. Baby carriers soothe and contain the fussiest babies, making cooking possible. Although my youngest is almost three and I rarely wear her anymore, I grab my ergo like a lifejacket on a sinking ship when she starts to fuss the moment I begin cooking.Her new view from above brings with it hilarious commentary and the occasional seasoning of drool in the pots.

4. Feed the Lions
A guaranteed way to keep your lions tame is to offer crudités or fresh fruit while they wait. If they’re truly hungry they’ll reach their daily vegetable and fruit requirements before dinner is served. Your fresh and healthy meals’ vegetables are a bonus.

5. Creative Leftovers
Like a chameleon changing colors, last night’s dinner needs to change into something
unrecognizable and still savory. Deceiving your little dinner dates is key. Cooking once and reaping two, maybe more meals is the epitome of optimization.

There you have it, a dash of cooking tips to minimize the burden that cooking brings to us less adept mom-cooks.

Our tip this week is a how-to video on soft boiled eggs. Claire’s 40 second video offers a lifetime of perfect eggs. **Be sure the water is boiling before starting the timer.** You can read Claire Handleman’s latest blog post on Passport to Eat.

If you want to see evidence of how parenting has changed in the last generation, look no further than your kitchen table. We grew up drinking Kool-Aid in the heat of July, moms waving us back out the door to busy ourselves in the blazing sun of those wide-open hours of summer. We ate orange-tinted macaroni and cheese, grabbed from a store shelf and flung into the cart alongside Stovetop stuffing and Hamburger Helper. Bologna sandwiches for lunch, Eggo waffles for breakfast.

Now our grocery runs are tinted with the confusion of a million choices: organic strawberries or regular? Lentil crackers or quinoa crisps? Is organic beef good enough, or should I splurge on grass-fed? A few hours in the deep hole of Netflix food documentaries and you emerge somehow simultaneously empowered and confused.

This is how I managed to find myself in the aisle of a specialty grain supplier buying large buckets of organic wheat kernels to grind with my own appliance purchased solely for that purpose. Saturday mornings found my own mother sleeping late while my siblings and I poured overflowing bowls of square cinnamon cereal sparkling with visible sugar crystals. Meanwhile I am up with the sun watering my lettuce plants on the patio and grinding wheat for my family like we are nineteenth-century pioneers.

As mothers, our purpose is to nurture our children, and sometimes food becomescentral to this calling. We all want to rise above mediocrity and provide the best, thesafest, the most nourishing. I developed this fascination when I was a stay-at-home mom to two kids, and when I went back to work in the years that followed, I maintained the same demands on myself. Spending idle Sunday afternoons freezing bone broth and chopping vegetables to help me with the chaos of a weekly grind consisting of an exhausted mom, two rambunctious kids, and a traveling husband.

But with wine in hand and garlic sizzling in a pan, dinnertime was the hour that it allfell away. The kids would create chaos and mess as they played, but they were happy, and so was I. I’d see firsthand in that hour each night as we talked and ate around our shared table that I was somehow doing it. I was juggling all the balls we carry, and we were making it. Bellies full, connections nourished, and a sink full of dishes as I loaded the kids in the bath each night. To me, the dinner hour was evidence I was doing something right.

But sometimes we feel like we are doing all the right things, and it still falls apart.

Last winter had me moving one baby step at a time until I found the kids and me in a new place. I was starting over in a way I never expected, just the three of us. Divorce shatters lots of things – hearts, families, expectations. My entire idea of what makes me “good enough” was turned on its head. All of these tasks I demanded of myself – the clean house, the coordinated outfits and folded laundry, the dinner menu –didn’t seem to matter much anymore. I was emptied of everything I once was and given the task of filling it up again in an entirely new way.

I felt foreign, and everything was unfamiliar, including the food I’d once prepared so enthusiastically. We’d hurriedly eat pizza among moving boxes, or we’d have spaghetti for the third time that month which never brought complaint from the two little people in front of me, but it didn’t nourish my own soul in the way I craved.But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see our dinners as they once were. I couldn’t see my own reflection as it once was either.

One of the most unfamiliar experiences of single motherhood was the vast amountof alone time I suddenly had. My first summer on my own brought stretches of days at a time when I was alone in my quiet house, feeling my way around the loneliness like a dark room I’d never entered before. And no moment highlights this solitude as heavily as the dinner hour. Sitting down at a table for one felt haunted and was enough to make me lose my appetite. Cereal or a quick sandwich seemed like good options. Chinese take-out on the couch if I was feeling indulgent.

It’s hard to pinpoint exact moments when a shift occurs in our lives. Most changes happen incrementally in ways we hardly notice. But I can remember one moment,that first summer alone, when I found myself at the stove stirring shredded zucchini in a pan and chopping mushrooms, making myself real food instead of cereal. As the months have rolled by, I’ve developed a knack for adapting recipes and quantities to fit my table of one. Sometimes I even light a candle and pull a linen napkin from the china cabinet, a ritual that nourishes far more than just my physical frame. Treating yourself as the treasure you are begins with what you put inside your body, and that simple action heals you in countless ways. This is something I’ve come to know firsthand.

As the months rolled by, our table set for three began to feature the same favorites from years past. Slow pots of homemade soup that simmer all day on a weekend,fresh whole wheat waffles topped with fruit and maple syrup, the sizzle of roastedvegetables waiting in the oven. The dinner hour is still often the moment in our day that nourishes our spirits as much as our bodies.

I’ve changed though. I turn off the food documentaries now, and I refuse to holdmyself to impossible standards. Remembering that what nourished me most as a kidwere the hours spent at the kitchen table, not necessarily the organic perfection on aplate in front of me. In short, I see that there are a million ways to be a good mom and no one way to be a perfect one.

On one particular night this winter, a full year after I split my life apart and put it allback together in a new way, I picked up pizza on the way home from my son’sspeech therapy appointment. It was already dark by the time we got home from ourWednesday after-school obligations. I placed the box on the kitchen counter and filled three water glasses. Not a single healthy vegetable to be seen, we ate it with one hand, standing up. I fed the dog and as I went to take him out, I heard laughter inside and turned around to see my glass patio doors framing our little table like a movie scene as it was light inside and dark out. Both of them laughing, mouths open,chasing each other around the table and holding pizza. I guess it was the bitter cold outside and the light and warmth inside, combined with their little laughing voices.But it looked like perfection when I know what it really was – an exhausted mom,tired kids, a long day, and a $9 dinner.

And to their little eyes, I think it looks much the same as that view I held from the outside gazing in. There’s more than one way to feed the soul.

Most of the meals I make as a parent are distracted and burnt. Mornings are always a struggle and breakfast tends to get caught in the crossfire of packing lunches, getting dressed and “HURRY, it’s my turn in the bathroom!”A few weeks ago a pair of sausage patties took the brunt.

It was clear there wasn’t much worth saving-but in a desperate attempt at a good breakfast-I scraped the charred side down to edible and carved away the black edges to reveal two perfectly shaped hearts.I threw the salvaged patties on a plate with a banana, sideways like a smile, and added half of an orange for a nose. My son beamed like his breakfast.

That night during dinner I noticed Hunter was quiet and because he’s never quiet, I asked him, “Is everything ok?”

He lifted his eyes from the table and grumbled, “You didn’t give me any hearts.”

Since then meals are a little bit like the inquisition.Every helping is a heart shaped version of “Find the Panda,” and my ass is on the line unless I serve up valentines.On the flipside, I have an everyday opportunity to pack love into each bite.

Grandma claimed TLC made everything taste better, I guess she was right.

Hearts are a big deal at our house.We draw and paint them, collect rocks shaped like them, and now we eat them.